


heavy with mood

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [31]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Face-Sitting, M/M, Riding, Soul Sex, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Red takes a ride. Sans takes his chances. Edge takes notice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Red’s finishing up with a contact, passing over a wad of cash the guy barely deserves, when the cellphone in his jacket pocket thrums. He comes to point like a hunting dog; he might be forcibly retired these days, sent to the farm to get soft, but the old instincts are there, ready for the first whiff of blood.

Maybe it shows on his face, because his contact hesitates just shy of taking the money from Red’s hand. He’s a mid-level drug dealer who’s got his fingers in the criminal underground of the area, underwhelming as it is, which means he’s one of those rare humans with working survival instincts.

Not very good survival instincts, though, because he does the mental math and decides Red isn’t enough of a threat that he should bolt and not look back. He snatches the cash out of Red’s hand, careful not to touch him, and grins uneasily as he backs away. “Thanks, buddy. I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“Only if I want you to, pal,” Red says, grinning back with much sharper teeth. He knows this guy’s type; it’s better to keep him well-paid and too scared to get any bright ideas about doublecrossing them.

The guy gives a jittery, nervous laugh and gets the hell out of dodge, never once turning his back. Red watches him go, mostly because it’s fucking hilarious. He’s not allowed to kill people anymore, but damned if he can’t scare the crap out of them. Gotta keep his edge somehow.

Once the contact is gone, Red pulls out his phone. It’s not Edge, telling him they have someone who needs killing. Which is kind of disappointing. It’s been nine months since Red had a chance for a good fight with anyone but Edge, and it’d be nice to blow off some goddamn steam. Next best thing, though; it’s a text from Sans.

_let myself in. i’m in your bedroom. don’t get spooked and shank me._

How’s Red supposed to turn down that kind of invitation?

Red pockets his phone and takes a quick stroll through the void. Nothing interrupts him. Maybe Gaster just can’t find him, but he doubts it. He knows he’s not who Gaster is waiting for.

Then Red’s in his bedroom, and all thoughts of Gaster get torn straight out of his skull. 

Sans is waiting there as promised. He’s already naked, his jacket wadded up in a makeshift pillow. He claims Red’s space all bold as brass, warming his bed like he knows he belongs there. The black collar on his wrist draws Red’s eye like blood on snow. When Sans sees Red, he turns off the screen on his phone and casually tosses it aside. His grin shifts slightly from his default expression to something just for Red.

“Hey, asshole,” Sans says, a light in his eyes like he just won the game before it even started. “Busy shaking down old ladies for pocket change?”

Red doesn’t say a word. He needs a second to reckon with the suckerpunch Sans just gave him directly in the possessive streak. 

Suddenly wary, Sans asks, “What’s that expression for?”

“Nothing.” Red peels out of his jacket and tosses it aside. His boots and the rest of his clothes follow suit. Then he straddles Sans’s pelvis in case he’s getting any ideas about going somewhere, and Sans’s hands settle immediately on his hips like they were made to slot together. “You just can’t seem to stay outta my bed.”

His thumbs idly rubbing the top of Red’s iliac crests, Sans drawls, “Figured it was rude to climb in Edge’s without an invitation.”

Red snorts. “Thought he made it pretty clear that you’re on the guest list. You want it engraved or something? Sealed with wax and handed over by a choir of fucking angels?

“Sure. You know any?” As soon as Red opens his mouth, Sans says, “Okay, I just realized I set you up for a cheesy line there, so I’m gonna spare us both the embarrassment by pretending it never happened.”

“Well, if you’re any kind of angel, you’re definitely the fucking kind.” With a grin, Red curls his fingers around Sans’s lower spine and squeezes gently, just tight enough to promise more. Sans’s breath catches. Red asks, “Speaking of, you wanna screw around?”

It’s a genuine question, for all that Sans lounging naked in his bed is a pretty clear answer. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to jitter out of his bones anymore, his LV dulled to a manageable level, but there’s a familiar tension around his sockets that says the soul pain is getting bad again. The last dose of Edge’s magic has been fading over the last week, and Sans needs another hit; fun as it is, fucking around with Red is just a patch job.

The pain hasn’t stopped Sans from already getting riled, his eyes brighter and the first hint of a flush creeping up his throat. His pelvis feels warmer against Red’s tailbone. Sans says, “Nah. I was waiting for you in your bed because I wanna play checkers.”

Welp, that settles it. Sans is the boss of whether he feels up to fucking around or not, and Red’s sure as hell not gonna tell him no. Thoughtfully, Red says, “How ‘bout I eat you out instead?”

Judging from the look on Sans’s face, he’s still hung up on that idle question about whether he likes using his pussy. Which ain’t even about what junk Sans uses. Not really. It’s something Sans can control. It’s about him thinking his best quality in the sack is that he gives amazing head and doesn’t expect much in return. Too busy trying to live up to that graffiti that said for a good time, call. Whether _Sans_ has a good time was never the point.

It’s not exactly news that Sans has fucked up ideas about what they want from him. Calling him on his shit would be the fastest way to guarantee that he doesn’t use his cunt for months out of spite, which would be a real shame for Edge. Besides, it’s not like Red can’t fuck Sans up, down and sideways with any possible configuration of junk.

Restraining himself to just a little mockery, Red asks, “Not in the mood?”

Sans’s eyes narrow slightly. Red awards himself a point in the mental scoreboard of reactions he’s coaxed out of Sans. Then Sans redirects his gaze over Red’s left shoulder for a second, gathering his nerve before he says, “Actually, I was thinking maybe you could show me how to up my junk-forming game.”

Well, now. Ain’t that delicious. Red leans in, drawn by the scent of blood in the water. “Funny, that sounds like you’re asking me for help.”

Sans flicks an irritated glance at him like a throwing knife. “And it hurts me on a spiritual level, believe me. You get on my jock all the time about asking for what I want, so this is me asking. Maybe you wanna reconsider being an asshole about it.”

Red grins down at him. “I didn’t say no.”

Sans studies him for a moment before relaxing just a little. He admits, “I tried to figure it out on my own last night but it didn’t work.”

A little midnight self-exploration. That’s a pretty picture, Sans touching himself to get the magic flowing and trying again and again to force it to do what he wants, getting all sweaty and wet and frustrated. He wonders how long Sans tried and whether he got himself off in the end, or if he just edged himself for Red’s convenience.

“It’ll work,” Red says. “You already figured it out once when I cashed that blank check. You changed up your magic in the middle of sex because you wanted me to finger your tight little ass while I fucked you.”

“Dude,” Sans says, clearly struggling to sound like he’s somehow above all this dirty talk when Red can feel his magic burn hotter.

“You just get too hung up on what you don’t want to make. Like, say, a pussy.” Sans tenses, and Red tsks and kneads the tension out of Sans’s lumbar spine. “Don’t get your back up. It’s a hypothetical example.”

“So’s your mom,” Sans says.

It’s tempting to settle into bouncing snark off each other for a while, but Sans’ll bullshit until Edge gets home from work in a couple hours, and then nobody gets off. So Red ignores that for the moment and continues, “I think what you need is a little motivation.”

“As a general rule, motivation isn’t exactly my bag,” Sans says, even as his gaze drops shamelessly to Red’s pelvis. “But I’m game. What d’you have in mind?”

“I wanna sit on your face,” Red says.

That easy, Sans’s eyelights blow wide. He grins crookedly. “Not sure what that has to do with me making junk to order.”

“Nothing. That part’s just for me,” Red says.

“I’m okay with that,” Sans says, pleased.

“Thought you might be.” Red gives his spine a last fond squeeze before climbing off of him. There’s a gratifying haze of magic in Sans’s pelvis already. “Don’t worry, honey, I didn’t forget what you asked for. I can talk you through it while I ride your face for a while.”

“I dunno,” Sans says. “You talking might be a dealbreaker.”

“It hasn’t been before,” Red says. 

Sans gives a rueful shrug, conceding the point. “I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring you.”

Red knee-walks up the bed, which isn’t exactly graceful but fuck it, Sans doesn’t come to him for grace. He kneels over Sans’s face. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Sans’s expression, like he’s not sure if he should make it this easy. So Red takes his sweet time, hovering over Sans’s mouth as he lets his cunt form. Sans drags in an unsteady breath, a delicious brush of air.

“Didn’t know you’d be so into this,” Red says. When he reaches down and spreads himself open, letting Sans see how wet he’s already getting, Sans makes a very small noise in his throat. “You ever let anybody do this to you before?”

“Seems more like me doing something to you, buddy,” Sans says.

Which means no. Red figured. This doesn’t fall under Sans’s standard operating procedures; for one thing, Red can’t really figure out how to do it in a storage closet.

“Yep,” Red says, idly rubbing his clit as he watches the hunger in Sans’s expression gets sharper and sharper. “You’re in complete control.”

Sans exhales. “Can we skip to the part where we have sex?”

“We are having sex,” Red says, grinning. “Can’t you tell?”

“Fuck, you’re annoying,” Sans sighs.

“Yep. Anyway, just snap your fingers if you wanna breathe.” Red finally gives Sans what he wants. Sans shudders beneath him, his eyes closing and his hands grasping Red’s hips. Sans’s tongue curls into him. Red purrs, running a hand over the curve of Sans’s skull. “That’s right. Get me wet so I can take your dick.”

Sans’s hands tighten on his hips. His tongue presses against Red’s clit, soft, teasing little kitten licks and gentle sucks that echo the way he mercilessly edged Red yesterday. Red feels his grin sharpen at the reminder.

So for a while, Sans eats him out like this is all he could ever want, equal parts skill and enthusiasm, a goddamn pussy-eating savant. It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time before Red’s close, moaning his appreciation, his femurs trembling as Sans works him over. Sans doesn’t ask for a break, breathing in little huffs through his nasal aperture even though it can’t be giving him enough air.

“Hey,” Red says. He’s more than wet enough already, so slick he can feel it all over both of them, but he has something else in mind. Sans cracks an eye open, the light in it hazy, although he focuses just fine when he sees the grin on Red’s face. Red pulls away to let him breathe and admires the wetness on Sans’s teeth and chin as Sans drags in oxygen like a drowning man. “You wanna give your jaw a rest for a second and let me steer?”

Sans looks up at him, breathing raggedly, his face hot and his eyes wide, then licks his teeth and husks out, “Fine. Just try not to give me whiplash.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Red croons, sweet as sugar. Sans looks less than impressed. “Now open your mouth.” 

For once, Sans obeys. Red sinks back down, coming to rest on Sans’s tongue. He rocks against it in slow little thrusts. Sans moans, muffled against Red’s pussy, and the vibration of it makes another pulse of wetness bleed from Red. Red hisses softly, feeling his cunt spasm around yearning emptiness. “Fuck yeah. Gonna use you right. Your mouth, your pretty cock.”

Sans’s grip spasms on his hip, a brief lapse before he gets himself back under control.

Red urges Sans to tip his head further back so Red can better grind against his tongue. Sans goes easily. The frictionless glide is so sweet that Red loses rhythm for a second and gets a little rougher than he means to. Sans moans a second time, rich and filthy. Fighting back the rising tide of pleasure, Red manages, “Just lemme have you.”

Sans tenses beneath him, but Red figures he can’t overthink too much when Red’s using his handy-dandy oral fixation against him. There’s a crackle of magic, barely audible above all the wet sex noises, and then Sans relaxes in a way that he wouldn’t if he formed something Red didn’t ask for.

“That’s it,” Red groans, letting Sans hear his vicious delight. Pride and possessiveness tangle up with Sans’s tongue on his clit like it’s all one thing. He’s closer than he thought he was. He loses his words for a second, shuddering hard. “Fuck, I’m gonna come in your mouth.”

Sans hums, a smug, deliberate noise, and the orgasm spills over Red all at once. When he falters, Sans presses his advantage and uses his clever tongue to coax Red through another few racking waves of pleasure, making him shudder and groan. Shame they didn’t do this in Edge’s bed; Red would have had a headboard to grab to steady himself in the aftermath. 

Red finds the strength to pull away from Sans’s mouth, and Sans manages to look disgruntled even as he gasps for air and tries to recover from several minutes of low-key oxygen deprivation. He looks good when he’s wild-eyed and marked with Red’s come. 

Still out of breath, Sans says, “I wasn’t done.”

“I can ride your mouth until the boss gets home and leave you all wet and desperate, if that’s what you really want.” Red grins wider. “Might be fun.”

Sans glances away, but not before Red sees the guilty spark that says yeah, some part of Sans wouldn’t mind that at all. “I did go to the trouble of making this dick, so...” 

The words trail off as Sans notices for the first time the mark Edge left high on the inside of Red’s inner femur. Red was wondering how long it’d take; Sans is usually pretty observant, even if he comes to the wrong damn conclusions, but he was understandably distracted by Red’s cunt.

“Oh yeah,” Red says, as if he actually forgot it was there. “You like it?”

Sans can’t seem to tear his eyes off the bruise, dark and slicked with Red’s jizz. For a second, Red wonders if Sans is gonna have another one of those periodic _oh no, incest_ freakouts about the fact that it was Edge who put it there. Then Sans turns his head to nuzzle the mark.

“Looks good on you,” Sans says, watching him through half-lidded eyes. 

“Y’know, you keep sweet-talking me and I’m gonna wonder if you’re being ironic,” Red says.

Giving him a level look, Sans says, “About as ironic as the nicknames, sweetheart.”

“... Heh.” Red gives Sans’s cheek a gentle smack and climbs off him, at least for the moment. He’s got another saddle to straddle, namely that dick Sans made for him. It’s hard and untouched. Red trails a fingertip down the track left by a drop of precome, watching as Sans tries and fails to stop himself from pushing up into the touch. He’s always so goddamn responsive. Licking his finger clean, Red says, “It’s just what I always wanted.”

“You must’ve sent Santa weird letters as a kid,” Sans says.

Red snorts. “That really what you wanna talk about?”

“‘M not exactly in the h-holiday spirit, no,” Sans says, breath hitching as Red curls his fingers around the base of his dick and slowly jerks him off to spread his precome, slicking him up. It only takes three strokes before the rambling kicks in. “But, I mean, there’s plenty of opportunity for bad metaphors. So many goddamn phallic objects. You can take a ride on my North Pole. Lick my candy cane. Go down my chimney. Ring my bells. Ride my sleigh.”

“You already used ride once,” Red points out. “Better start over.”

Sans half-laughs, half-groans. “Fuck you.”

“Now there’s an idea.” Still holding Sans’s dick, Red straddles his hips. He brings it to his cunt, slips the head just inside him to watch Sans shudder and grab at the mattress, and then stops there. He's denying himself as much as Sans, but it's worth the satisfaction of purring, "Remind me, Sansy. How many times did you stop me from coming? Six, wasn't it?"

Sans stares up at him, briefly alarmed, then grins shakily. "Sounds about right. I lost track when you started begging."

Smug little shit. Red rolls his hips, taking him another inch deeper before stopping again with a moan. Sans doesn’t quite manage to stifle a desperate noise. His hands come to rest uncertainly on Red’s hips, but he doesn’t try to pull Red down before he’s good and ready. Look at him, being all patient and letting this play out instead of grabbing for the steering wheel. Maybe he knows that Red would make him pay for it one way or another.

“You’re getting awful cocky,” Red says. “Maybe we oughta make things fair.”

Or maybe Sans had an ace up his sleeve, because he looks up at Red and says with a throaty desperation and a sly look in his eyes, “Please, Red.”

Red’s breath shudders out, the sound halfway to a laugh. Trust Sans to weaponize how pretty he is when he begs. That’s fine. He’ll mean it soon enough.

Fuck, it's good to sink down on Sans, taking all of him in one easy glide. Sans's low groan satisfies something in Red, the same instinct that makes him leave bruises on Sans's collarbone and curl around Sans as Edge heals him. He clenches down, gripping Sans tighter to drag that noise out of him again. 

“Say it again,” Red says.

Sans clutches at Red’s hips like he’s just trying to give his restless hands something to hold onto. Justifiably distracted, he says, “What, please?”

“All of it,” Red says, struggling not to just ride Sans hard like he desperately wants to.

A flicker of something passes behind Sans’s eyes. He says, “Please, Red. You kinky asshole.”

Red snorts. “Close enough.”

Bracing himself with a hand on Sans’s ribs, he grinds on Sans experimentally, searching for the right angle. When he finds it, he sighs his satisfaction and moves in shallow thrusts, letting the broad head of Sans’s dick rock slowly against his g-spot. It’s so good his toes curl. Maybe that’s what gets him even wetter, or maybe it’s the way he can feel Sans jerk inside him. Red tells him, “Fuck, that’s good.”

“That’s--” Sans’s voice comes out too shaky for his taste, apparently, because he tries again. “That’s neat. Thanks.”

“Neat,” Red laughs. “You’re just adorable when you’re fucked up.”

Sans spares a hand to flip him off, then puts it on Red’s sternum, roughly thumbing the not-scar they share. It jerks a moan out of Red, not that he tries too hard to keep it back. He’s not ashamed to enjoy it. He abandons the slow grind and fucks Sans like he wants, riding him quick and dirty as the mattress squeaks. 

The sudden change makes Sans grab blindly at him, his head falling back to bare his throat as he gasps. A moment later, Sans’s jaw sets, trying so hard to keep those noises all to himself and not quite managing. Tight little moans keep slipping through his teeth. The last shadow of pain in his expression finally yields, drowned out by what Red is doing to him.

“That’s right,” Red pants, his femurs burning as he thoroughly uses Sans like something he means to keep. Sans manages something that’s not quite a word, his fingertips vicious points digging bruises into Red’s hip, and Red growls his approval. “Take it for me.”

Sans hisses out a breath through his teeth, his expression desperate and conflicted. He’s close, fighting himself not to come yet. Never mind that Red’s trying to wring it out of him. He’ll get all up in his head about it if he comes before Red does.

Hell, it’s not like Red’s not already wound up. That’s an easy fix. He starts to reach for his clit, then stops. Considers. Calls his soul to his hand instead.

Red’s soul does its best imitation of a lightbulb. It’s soaked, dripping slick all over his hand, but he doesn’t actually touch it. Not yet. Maybe Red’s rhythm falters, or maybe the light is visible through Sans’s eyelids, because Sans opens his eyes, startled, and freezes when he sees what Red has in his hand. There’s a look in Sans’s eyes that Red wants to seal up in a jar and admire at length when he needs something to keep him warm at night.

“This okay?” Red asks, dragging a thumb over the surface of his soul to demonstrate and shuddering through the sensation. He knows he talks a lot in the sack, but even he has a hard time with coherent sentences when he’s riding Sans; his pace slows, deepens, falling into a rhythm like a fever dream.

“Yeah,” Sans says, his voice raw and his eyes fixed on Red’s soul like he can’t even blink. When Red touches himself again, it’s hard to tell which of them shiver harder. Sans makes a ragged noise, like saying one word unlocked his mouth, and Red echoes it without meaning to. Pawing at Red’s hip, Sans shocks the fuck out of him with two little words: “Lick it.” 

A second after he says it, Sans looks kind of shocked at himself. He doesn’t take it back. Red laughs, a disbelieving, delighted noise. He starts to raise the soul to his mouth, knowing it’ll be the ruin of him, and Sans breathes faster, shallow and excited. Just shy of making contact, so close he can feel his own breath, Red stops. Sans makes a wounded noise. Grinning, Red tells him, “Ask me nice.”

There’s nothing sly about the way Sans says it this time. “Please.”

Red drags his tongue over the curve of his soul. The pleasure rolls over him, and his body clutches tight. He groans, low and fervent, and does it again. Drops of fluid from his soul rain down on Sans’s ribs. Through them, Red can see Sans’s soul is just as wet as his is.

Sans whimpers, “Oh fuck, I can’t…”

It turns out not to matter. The third slow lick and the warning throb of Sans inside him is enough to do it. Red comes, an orgasm intense enough to break him if he was alone, but shared between them, it’s sweet and long and just about bearable. When he can actually be a person again, not just a random assortment of synapses and nerves, he blinks his eyes open and he and Sans just stare at each other, panting. They’re both splattered with soul jizz like a spraycan of silver paint exploded in the microwave. Well, minus the shrapnel.

“Wow,” Sans says. His grin is unsteady. “Hi.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Red put his soul back, wobbles his way off Sans’s dick and drops onto the bed beside him like a sack of laundry. He groans. “This mattress is never gonna be the same.”

“Neither are your knees, probably.”

“Worth it.”

Sans makes a vague agreeable noise.

Eventually, Red manages the coordination to roll on his side and drape an arm over Sans’s ribs, nuzzling his shoulder. Sans smells like him. He approves. Sans sighs, tired and content. Red asks, “How’s your soul?”

“Dripping all over the goddamn place.”

“Mmm.” Red actually meant whether it hurt again, but hey, he’ll take it. He strums his fingers down Sans’s ribs. “For somebody who doesn’t like dirty talk, you’re pretty good at it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah, baby, tell me all about how wet your soul got for me.”

“At least I didn’t get soul jizz everywhere.”

“From the look of you, it wouldn’t take much.”

Sans sighs. “Believe me, I know. It hasn’t taken much lately to get it going, either.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Red groans. “You trying for round three?”

“Keep it in your pants, buddy.”

“I don’t got pants on. I’m exempt.”

Ignoring him, Sans continues, “I figured it was gonna be on my mind whether I watched you get off with your soul or not, and…”

After a moment, Red prompts him. “And what?”

“I, uh, just really wanted to see it,” Sans says, each word in the sentence getting quieter. “Heh. That’s awkward to admit.”

“What, that you actually want something?” Red runs his hand down Sans’s ribs, finding his arm and following it down to the collar around his wrist. He curls his fingers around it, holding on. “You get used to it.”

Sans takes a deep breath like he’s bracing himself. His voice is casual. “So, hey, sometimes I can feel it when you come.”

Involuntarily, Red’s grip tightens on Sans’s wrist. It’s one thing to see Sans’s soul wet just from Red getting off, or to feel like the pleasure passes back and forth between them in lazy waves as they fuck, but it’s another thing to hear Sans casually say like it doesn’t totally freak him the hell out. Red thought it would. That’s why he kept that shit to himself, holding the satisfaction close to his chest like a good hand of cards. It's not like Edge's thing with Sans, Red doesn't have that in him, but he likes it. He wants to keep it.

“Sex with a trusted partner, like the stupid-ass book says,” Red says. “Weird soul shit. Happens with the boss sometimes.”

(When Red forgets himself and lets his guard down and feels things he shouldn't.)

“Didn’t start with us ‘til recently,” Sans says. 

Turning his head to nip Sans’s collarbone, Red says, “It’s probably 'cause your soul is healing up.”

“Yeah, probably,” Sans agrees. “That makes sense.”

They both know it doesn't. A silence falls between them.

“Anyway, you wanna conserve water?” Sans asks.

“Fuck yes, I do,” Red says, grabbing the rope out of this conversational pit trap with both hands. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go save some whales.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Red is a creepy threatening bastard to his criminal contacts and wants to murder people for stress relief; Sans is in pain and continues to have weird ideas about sex; Red is possessive; Red didn't fully explain a soul thing because he thought Sans would flip out; everyone is just so good at feelings.
> 
> Edited a little for clarity and to make it sound less like it's a predestination /soulmate thing instead of just freaky soul tricks because Sans felt really close to Red in those moments and there were ~feelings~. Sorry about the confusion, I put this up a few editing passes too early. It's on me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

“Hey, is this game my dick?” Red asks. “‘Cause you sure are sucking at it.”

What an asshole. Sans pulls his terrible hand of cards to his chest. He’s not careful enough; pain stabs through his soul for about the twentieth goddamn time today before receding to a hot, dull ache. “Well, it’s definitely not your dick because it’s lasted a whole hour.”

Red gives that particular amused _heh_ that means he’s going to make Sans pay for that comment later. Then he settles back into the couch. “You wanna make this interesting?”

“We’re not playing strip poker right before Edge gets home,” Sans says.

“There’s a thought,” Red muses. “But nah, not this time. How’s about if I win the next hand, you take one of those painkillers?”

“It’s not that bad,” Sans says. Compared to right after he got home from Edge’s universe, this is a cakewalk with kittens and rainbows. It’s not the pain, it’s the steady throbbing that started up about fifteen minutes after he and Red fucked. Not that his soul isn’t always technically throbbing, seeing as he’s alive, but he’s not usually so unnervingly aware of it. His soul feels so heavy with magic that its own weight will bear it down into his pelvis. “Besides, what’s in it for me?”

“I’ll let you take two turns in a row,” Red says.

Huh. Interesting.

On the one hand, fuck, Sans hates taking painkillers. They’re supposed to be for real problems. He’s only taken three of them this whole time. On a scale of one to getting his hip drilled into without anesthetic, this is maybe a five. It’s fine. 

(If he can’t talk them out of trying to fight Gaster, they need to keep painkillers on hand for afterwards. Y’know, just in case any of them survive.)

On the other, he could do a lot to Red with two turns.

Finally, Sans says, “Three turns.”

That’s supposed to be a little too rich for Red’s blood. Somehow he forgot that Red doesn’t give a shit about ‘supposed to’. Red gives him an assessing look, then grins. “Deal. Lemme see what you’ve--”

The door opens. Red turns to look with an easy grin and a subtle tension that’s immediately defused when Edge steps inside. Since they’re safe and all, Sans celebrates by taking the opportunity to peek at Red’s cards.

Of course Red catches him at it. He pulls his cards to his chest, all affronted. “Cheating, Sansy? For shame.”

“Uh-huh,” Sans says. “And this must be one of those special decks where there are two aces of spades, seeing as we both have one.”

“Weird. Must’ve been a misprint,” Red says. “So hey, for the record, what other cards do you have? ‘Cause I’m curious if they beat a royal flush.”

“That’s appropriate, seeing as you’re full of shit.” Sans folds his cards back into the deck and turns his full attention to Edge, who’s watching them indulgently as he takes off his jacket. “Hey, edgelord.”

Edge gives him a warm almost-smile and bends to scritch the stray who’s flopped over to show her belly. “Hello. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Work went a little long.”

Sans’s soul gives a distracting double-thump in his chest like it’s volunteering for pets too. Absently, he starts to rub his ribs, catches the sharp look Edge gives him, and drops his hand. With a casualness that’s not fooling anybody, he says, “It’s cool. You’re a busy guy.”

“We kept ourselves occupied,” Red says helpfully.

Ignoring Red is always the smartest option. Sans says, “So didja get everything done for the kid’s trip?”

“Mostly.” Edge undoes his bootlaces and tsks in fond irritation as the stray immediately lunges for them. “I trust Undyne to handle the last few details.”

Red snorts. “That means he’s gonna be texting her at 4 AM to make sure she did everything right.”

Great, Sans is keeping Edge from doing his actual job. “Y’know, if you’ve got stuff to handle, this can wait until tomorrow.”

Edge looks him over from the top of his head to the tips of his socks, then raises a single eloquent brow. 

Less eloquently, Red asks, “So you wanna do this in a hotel bed, huh? I’m into it.”

“Uh,” Sans says, because they are on a downward spiral of decreasing eloquence and he’s at the very bottom. “Okay, maybe not.”

“Shame,” Red sighs. He scootches over, taking up his usual position with his back to the arm of the couch. “C’mere, then. We gotta leave some room for the boss. Unless you’d rather be on his lap instead?”

Sans’s traitor imagination offers him a preview: straddling Edge’s lap, Red at his back purring sweet, filthy nothings in his ear, their arms around him as Edge feeds magic into his soul and maybe strokes it a little until--

All he’d have to do is ask.

It seems like a big risk to open his mouth at the moment. He doesn’t know what he’d say. So he just scoots over to press against Red, who hooks an arm around him and pulls him even closer, nuzzling his shoulder like a cat.

Speaking of cats, Edge pulls a bag of salmon jerky out of his inventory. The stray puts her paws up on his legs, flexing her toes in the world’s most adorable threat. At the crinkle of plastic, Doomfanger immediately comes trotting over from the kitchen.

“Give me just a moment,” Edge tells Sans. 

Still not trusting his voice, Sans gives him a wink and a fingergun. 

Like the Pied Piper, Edge wanders off into the basement with the cats trailing behind. From downstairs, Sans can hear meowing and Edge talking to the cats in a very serious tone. Helplessly, Sans grins.

It’s bad enough that Edge has the tall, dark and handsome thing going for him. Being a cat-charming dork is just unfair.

“Y’know, you can smoke up first, if you want,” Red says, rudely breaking into Sans’s attempts to will his soul to calm the fuck down. “He won’t care.”

“I’m fine,” Sans says. “You think he’s hungry? Maybe he wants to eat before we do this.”

“Why, you got something tasty in mind?” Red asks. “Or are you just stalling?”

Before Sans can tell him to fuck all the way off, Edge comes back up the stairs and shuts the door behind him. As he moves to the couch, he says, “My apologies. Doomfanger would be perfectly well-behaved, but I’m not so sure about her. She’s never seen a soul healing before, and she’s a nosy little creature.”

“Still no name, huh?” Sans asks.

Edge folds himself onto the couch. He apparently quick-changed into more comfortable pants while he was downstairs, and they don’t leave much of his pelvis to the imagination. In unrelated news, Sans’s mouth is watering. Edge sighs. “I’ve narrowed it down to a few possibilities.”

“Her name’s Cockblock,” Red says.

With strained patience, Edge says, “For the last time, it is not Cockblock. It’s not _going_ to be Cockblock. There will be, in fact, no cock in her name whatsoever.”

“Puss-puss,” Red says, his grin audible in his voice.

“Not menacing enough,” Sans says. “How about the Great Vagoo?”

“Please don’t encourage him,” Edge says tiredly. “Shall we?”

The throbbing has eased down to a tolerable level, mostly drowned out by the ache. At this point, stopping for dinner would just mean that by the time Edge laid hands on, it would’ve started again. Maybe if he tried icing it…

Yeah, they probably wouldn’t be thrilled by that suggestion. He’s supposed to be nice to the part of his body that tried really hard to kill him.

Sans turns his head and asks, “Hey, Red?”

“Yeah, I gotcha, you spoiled bastard,” Red says. His familiar magic curls gently around Sans’s soul and brings it out of his chest.

Sans’s soul looks the same as it ever does, not feverishly flushed or swollen with magic like a bruise. He tries to touch it as little as possible, but as he cups it in his hands, that aching throb kicks up again.

Judging from Edge’s expression, he’s picking up on the part where Sans is in pain but nothing else. Edge glances at Red over Sans’s shoulder, and Sans feels Red shrug.

“Edge?” Sans offers his soul and enjoys the brief flicker of Edge’s visceral pleasure at the show of trust before Edge manages to smother it. “C’mon. I’m good.”

He’s not lying. He still doesn’t love the idea of anybody in his head, but the fact is that Edge knows all his secrets and didn’t flinch. There’s nothing left to hide from him. It’s kind of refreshing.

Edge braces Sans’s hands in his own and takes a deep breath. A focused calm seems to settle over him. Then he touches Sans’s soul.

The second Edge’s fingers make contact, that hot throb goes off like a flare gun with a faulty trigger. Pleasure-pain jolts through Sans. His breath hitches so sharply that it’s almost a sob. He can’t-- fuck, he _wants_\--

Edge yanks his hand back, and the tether between them snaps. The feeling cuts off like an electric current. Sans slumps back against Red. His head feels too empty, and his soul hurts like it’s punishing him for taking that pleasure away. He’s shaking.

They stare at each other. Edge’s eyes are very wide, his breathing uneven. Sans tries not to look like his pubic symphysis is pulsing in time with his soul.

“What the fuck just happened?” Red demands, breaking into the fraught silence with all the grace of a hammer shattering a stained glass window. He sounds worried, aggravated, and aggravated about being worried. “You all right?”

Hard to tell which of them he’s talking to. His arms are tight around Sans.

“Fuck,” Sans says. He starts to put a hand over his eyes only to remember that both hands are currently occupied by his soul. Which is, to add a wonderful detail to this whole clusterfuck, getting slick. “I wasn’t trying to-- it just _does_ that now. Sorry.”

“Ah,” Edge says helplessly. “Right.”

Finally catching on, Red gives a disbelieving laugh. “Shit. Kinda wound up there, Sansy?”

“Fuck off,” Sans says. Any bite in the words is ruined by how breathless he is. Edge is still staring at him. Sans averts his eyes in self-defense. “I dunno if this is going to work.”

“It’s all right,” Edge soothes. “It’s not a problem.”

“You and me can go deal with it real quick, if you want,” Red offers with only minimal leering. If there was no leering whatsoever, Sans would start planning an exorcism.

“Dude,” Sans says. “I can’t.”

“I can give you privacy,” Edge says. “I’ll go for a run. You can call me when you’re done.”

When Sans risks a glance at him, Edge looks like a man who could use a good long run right about now, plus maybe several cold showers. Part of Sans is really satisfied by that. Specifically his pelvis.

Dropping his gaze to his soul, Sans says, “It was like this when I woke up. I tried to, uh, _handle_ it when Paps went to work, but…”

The more he touched his soul, the closer to relief he got, but the more even that slight friction hurt until the pain drowned everything else out. Every time he tried it again, the pain came faster. When he finally gave up after the fourth try, there was a wet spot on the mattress and tears on his face.

They don’t need all the ugly details. Like a goddamn whiner, Sans admits, “Look, it hurts too much, okay? Maybe I can deal with it after it’s fixed, I dunno, but right now it’s not happening.”

“Didja consider maybe taking a fucking painkiller first, dumbass?” Red demands. His hands are gentle, petting Sans in a way that’s really not helping with the whole throbbing soul issue.

“It’s not worth wasting one just so I can get off. It doesn’t hurt that bad if I’m not--” Sans mimes rubbing his soul with his thumbs without ever actually making contact. “Y’know.”

With a groan, Red buries his face in Sans’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, don’t do that when you’re parked on my lap, you’re fucking killing me here.”

“Poor baby,” Sans deadpans. “I’m just saying.”

“I don’t mind,” Edge says abruptly. The words are little too raw to sound entirely altruistic. When Sans looks at him, startled, Edge clears his throat and looks down, which leaves him staring directly at Sans’s soul. Edge goes slightly pink but can’t seem to tear his eyes away. Gruffly, he continues, “You know I want you.”

Yeah, Sans caught onto that eventually. There’s a slow fuse burning between them, one lingering glance and kissed hand at a time. Edge is being so goddamn patient, but it’s Sans who’s riding the brakes. 

“I give you my word, I’ll be careful,” Edge says quietly. “I won’t move my hand, and if it starts to be too much--”

“Okay,” Sans says.

Edge’s head snaps up. He stares at Sans like he’s trying to learn the face-reading thing by sheer concentration. “Okay?”

“I need another fix if I’m gonna make it through this trip, and I’m pretty sure my soul is gonna be twitchy until it’s healed enough that I can, y’know, deal with it,” Sans says. “I trust you.”

Edge lets out a harsh breath, kinda like a laugh and kinda like Sans punched him in the sternum with the truth. “Thank you.”

Sans gives him a crooked grin. “I’m sure you’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

“Oh yeah, he’ll be all honorable and shit,” Red says, his voice full of dark promise. “He wants to be real good to you.”

His head suddenly swimming with all the different ways Edge could be good to him, Sans swallows and says evenly, “That’d be a nice change.”

Red snerks. “Funny, you didn’t have any complaints when I was riding your--”

“Enough,” Edge says, gives Red a warning look over Sans’s shoulder. He offers Sans a much gentler one. “Just tell me if you need to stop.”

“Okee-dokee.” Sans tries to leave it at that, but it turns out he can’t quite resist the bait. “You want me to pick a safeword?”

Red chokes out a laugh. Edge just looks at him, eyelights in them burning intensely enough that Sans can almost feel the heat. Maybe it should be unnerving, seeing as he’s basically poking a hungry tiger with a stick of salmon jerky to see what happens, but he trusts the tiger’s self-control. It’s a really polite tiger.

Slouching back into Red, Sans grins at Edge. “Guess I’ll just say stop.”

“Told you, boss,” Red says, rubbing his cheek against Sans’s. “He fights dirty.”

Edge’s mouth slowly curves. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Does that mean I can continue?”

“Yeah,” Sans says, his voice a little throaty. “You can touch me.”

Edge takes him at his word. There’s another bright shock of sensation, pleasure and pain tangled up together until it’s the same thing. It hurts more this time. Sans’s head snaps back against Red’s shoulder, a long breath hissing through his teeth, but he doesn’t make a sound and embarrass himself, so hey, there’s a reason to be grateful for the pain. If it was all pleasure, he doesn’t know if he could keep quiet.

Edge’s hand doesn’t move, because of course it doesn’t. Eventually the feeling recedes into shaky warmth. Sans’s body doesn’t care if it was pleasure or pain or both; it’s an endorphin free-for-all either way. The back of his head aches where he whacked it against Red’s shoulder. Red probably has another bruise on his collarbone now. Whoops.

“Y’okay?” Red asks.

It takes a few seconds for Sans to manage words. “That was a lot. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Edge says, his voice almost even. He’s always been careful not to let his emotions bleed through when they’re doing this, but there’s a warm glow through the connection like the heat of a distant bonfire, comforting from several steps back and scorching in the center of it. And that’s just what slips through when Edge is actively trying not to let Sans see what’s all that tightly wound control. If he snaps...

(A delicious shiver rolls through Sans’s overclocked nervous system.)

As soon as Sans puts a finger on the feeling, Edge gently draws it away like he’s afraid Sans will burn himself. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

More to the point, he’s probably sorry that hurting Sans didn’t turn him off. Considering his whole thing with Red, Sans can’t exactly blame him for having certain associations. He doesn’t get it, but Edge can’t help being wired that way.

“I don’t mind,” Sans says. A moment later, when Red snickers, he realizes that was a dumbass thing to say. “Wait, fuck, I mean--”

“I know what you mean,” Edge says. “Down to business, then?”

Right. Yeah. They’re supposed to be doing things. 

Sans closes his eyes and makes himself more comfortable in Red’s lap. This goes easier if he doesn’t watch. He probably shouldn’t think too hard about Edge’s magic penetrating the center of him when he’s trying to calm the fuck down.

Welp. Too late. He’s thinking about it.

“Go for it,” Sans says. “Y’know, this is sweet and everything but you don’t gotta check in every two seconds. I’ll tell you if--”

There’s no missing when Edge starts feeding magic into him. Sans is so hypersensitive that the warmth of Edge’s fingertips is just on the edge of too much, white-hot points of contact that he can almost see through his closed eyelids. After getting colder and colder for the last few days, that sudden heat is bliss. He tries to finish his sentence and just kind of trails off into a soft, embarrassing noise he can’t bite back.

“There you go,” Red murmurs, his teeth so close to Sans’s throat that it’s almost a kiss. “Nice and relaxed. Fuck, you’re taking so much of it this time, sweetheart.”

It’s a cheap shot. Sans’s breath still catches at the (unnecessarily filthy) praise. He _feels_ like he’s taking a lot of Edge’s magic, his soul just desperately gulping it down. He’s already a little dizzy, and he thinks Edge is trying to be gentle.

“Wow,” Sans says. Telling Red not to make it weird is a lost cause. The air was heavy with the potential for sex before Red ever opened his mouth. Stupid oversensitive soul. “Could you make your dirty talk any cheesier?”

“Definitely,” Red says. “You want me to give it a try?”

“For all of our sakes, no,” Edge says absently, all that focus and control narrowed down to his fingertips.

“Lemme think for a second… Oh, I got it.” Strumming his fingers down Sans’s ribs, Red purrs, “That’s a good boy. Let him fill you up.”

“Just makes me think of donuts,” Sans says, grasping for the first ridiculous bit of self-defense against dying from boners that he can think of. 

“Sexy donuts?” Red asks. “I mean, are we talking cream filling here? ‘Cause otherwise there’s no point.”

“‘Course there’s no point,” Sans says. “Donuts are round.”

Edge scoffs in a way Sans decides to take as a smothered laugh. Red sighs. “Fuck you for making me listen to that.”

“You love it,” Sans says. 

There’s a long pause from Red, enough that Sans considers opening his eyes and craning around to look at Red’s face. Before he has to put in that kind of effort, Red says, “‘Sides, some donuts aren’t round.”

“Still rounded on the corners,” Sans says. “No ninety degree angles. No points. Suck it.”

“Goddamn, you get pedantic when you’re fucked up,” Red says. 

“You’re fucked up,” Sans says. He’s losing some of the edges of his words. He’s supposed to be trying harder to keep it together, isn’t he? Seems like a lot of trouble with not much payoff to try to fight this for the sake of proving a point to… Fuck, he doesn’t even know who he’s supposed to be proving what to anymore.

“He’s right about the angles,” Edge says. Defense from an unexpected corner. Sans feels warm and fuzzy. He tries to feel warm and fuzzy _at_ Edge and gets a spark of fondness in response, the mental equivalent of one of Red’s nuzzles.

“Nobody asked you, boss,” Red says. There’s no real anger in it, which is pretty surprising for Red. He must be feeling mellow. “You just do what you’re doing and shut up.”

“I would be lost without your helpful suggestions,” Edge says dryly. 

A silence falls that’s almost cozy. There’s probably not many places where Sans is safer than here, curled up between them. Safe being a relative term. There’s not much safe about the way he’s so goddamn aware that Red’s pelvis is pressed against his tailbone, that Red’s teeth are so close to his throat, that Edge’s fingers are on his soul and it’s _dripping_ and primed to go off if Edge touched it just right.

Sans knows Edge would touch it right. He’s got more experience than Sans’s blind fumbling. If Edge stroked him the way he needs to be, if Red helped, Sans would get off fast and hard. Maybe the pain would be worth it.

Edge makes a very small noise in his throat.

Fuzzily, Sans asks, “Edge?”

“It’s fine,” Edge says. “Everything’s fine.” 

“Y’sure?” Sans asks.

“Believe me, honey, he’s doing just fine,” Red says. He sounds amused and so goddamn smug that its density could distort time and space.

If Edge wasn’t fine, Red wouldn’t sound that particular flavor of amused. It’d be more like _it’s gonna be hilarious when I splatter someone all over this goddamn room_ amused. Sans can relax. He doesn’t really have a choice, with Edge’s magic filling him until he feels like a brimming cup just waiting for the last drop to break the surface tension and send him spilling over.

_the hot rain of soul fluid on the back of his ribs as Red moves above him, as if each slow drag of Red’s tongue over his own soul is wringing it out_

Red’s rusty purr starts up. It’s a good sound. Sans just enjoys it for a couple minutes, or maybe ten, then swallows a few times, trying to coax his motor to start, and purrs back. Seems rude not to. Red chuckles and presses a kiss to Sans’s shoulder, murmuring something Sans can’t be assed to interpret into words. It sounds like praise.

_Red’s voice in his ear purring filth about using Sans’s cunt, Red’s cock angled just right for Sans to wreck himself on, Red’s fingers barely brushing the collar so that it sings Edge, Edge, Edge_

It occurs to Sans that he doesn’t know if Edge saw that.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t really _mind_ if Edge saw that.

“S’rry,” he mumbles anyway.

He can’t tell if Edge answers out loud or just in his head, but he doesn’t sound/feel angry. Edge’s restraint is like the sturdy rock Sans tied a rope around before throwing himself off a cliff. So fucking cool. So patient. So getting his fingers as wet like he’d slipped them into Sans’s cunt.

Sans is so warm now he feels feverish. The heat of Edge’s magic flows down his back. His lumbar spine. His sacrum. His coccyx. It gathers there, building. His next breath shudders.

Edge stops. Sans makes an inarticulate noise of complaint, but he’s purring so hard it comes out as a sleepy trill, like a cat shaken out of a nap. Red laughs; the sound is oddly shaky. “Sorry, sweetheart. Maybe next time.”

This is Red’s fault somehow, Sans decides. He’d hold a grudge (he’s really good at that) but Red’s so goddamn comfortable to cuddle with. And good in bed. And terrifyingly smart. And good in bed. And a better person than he pretends to be. Also: good in bed.

There’s a soft, amused huff from Edge.

Red asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Edge says. He breaks contact with Sans’s soul, leaving Sans alone in his head. But his hands are still braced under Sans’s, their knees still touching, and Red is steady at his back. It’s bearable, even if Sans can feel that golden warmth bleeding out of him. “Brother?”

“Yeah,” Red says. 

Those two words contain a whole conversation Sans isn’t privy to. 

Sans’s soul lifts out of his cupped hands. It’s still dripping a little on his palms, his wrists, his arms, his lap. He flinches when a couple droplets hit the inside of his pelvis as Red settles the soul back inside his chest.

There’s the soft sound of someone pulling something out of their inventory. Edge gives Sans’s hands a gentle squeeze and then starts wiping them off with something warm and dry. Clumsily, Sans tries to take the towel and do it himself; it’s his hands, his mess.

“Let me.” The tender roughness of Edge’s voice sends another shiver down Sans’s back. So he just lets Edge take care of it. Edge is painstakingly careful, like he’s something precious. It’s such a small thing, but it shakes Sans. The rumble of Red’s contented purr is a soundtrack to it all.

“You should eat something,” Edge says when he’s done, idly thumbing the buckle on the collar.

“Okay,” Sans says faintly. He’s not really sure he wants to let go of this warm haze, but he can’t stay here forever.

Edge presses something into his hand. Sans doesn’t open his eyes to check what it is. It doesn’t really matter; all that matters is that Edge is the one offering him food. When Sans puts it in his mouth, it’s sweet and crumbly and crammed full of intent that’s as subtle as a brick upside the head. No utilitarian food bar for him, no sir. Not if Edge can help it.

The veil doesn’t get ripped cruelly off. He’s still kinda comfortably fuzzy, warm and lax with Edge’s magic, but he can actually open his eyes and focus on Edge’s face. On the surface, Edge looks as calm and controlled as ever. Unruffled, aside from the ghost of a blush on his cheekbones. But the look in his eyes…

_Hello, tiger. Nice kitty._

Sans turns the last few minutes over in his mind, putting Edge’s hungry look together with the fever dream memory of thinking about sex with Red and the steady ache in his pelvis. The answer is pretty obvious. Edge barely even touched him, but Sans got too goddamn close to coming in his pants, and Edge could feel every second of it.

“It’s all right,” Edge says, apparently thinking Sans has already decided how he feels about it. Sans can see him struggling to get himself back under control from even that slight lapse before Sans flinches. “You aren’t thinking clearly. I won’t… Just give me a moment.”

When Edge starts to stand, Sans catches his arm. That’s probably a good way to get shanked, but Sans gets away with a lot of shit that Red and Edge would make anyone else bleed for. Edge stops cold, still perched on the edge of the couch like he's ready to go on that jog after all.

“C’n we watch TV?” Sans asks, letting go of Edge now that he’s not going anywhere. Last week’s fiasco belatedly occurs to him, and he winces. “Wait, I’m pretty sure stabbing you was a one time only thing, but it’s okay if you don’t want--”

Edge simply shifts over on the couch to make room for him. He frowns briefly down at the wet spot, then tosses a towel onto it. “I can sit in the middle if you’d rather.”

“The fuck you can,” Red mutters.

“I don’t mind sleeping in the wet spot,” Sans says. “Just ask Red.”

Red snorts, his tension easily defused. Definitely feeling mellow. He lets Sans move out of his lap, his fingers curling loosely around Sans’s wrist like the handsy bastard he is. 

So Sans curls up on the couch between them. He doesn’t mind being the buffer. It gives him an excuse to sit in the middle and soak up two sources of body heat.

(Not that he’s actually cold right now; he’s still pretty toasty warm from Edge’s magic, but he doesn’t mind getting a little warmer. Edge is like a fucking space heater. It’s great.)

The routine has been that Sans cuddles with Red and shifts over so that his hip is touching Edge's. Not this time. Sans slouches over and rests his head on Edge's shoulder. Edge doesn’t tense up like he usually does the first few moments after Sans touches him, just pauses in the middle of retrieving the remote. Sans shamelessly steals a move out of Red’s playbook and rubs his cheek on Edge’s shoulder in what he hopes is an encouraging sort of way. Edge’s shirt is surprisingly soft.

Edge puts an arm around him, tucking Sans more securely against his side. It’s an echo of what they did the first time Edge touched Sans’s soul, and that memory would probably haunt Sans more if Red wasn’t here purring like a very smug motor and rubbing the inside of Sans’s wrist with the pad of his thumb.

“So, edgelord,” Sans says. “Didja see anything you liked?”

Edge goes still. Red’s grip briefly tightens like Sans caught him off guard; then Red laughs, low and delighted.

“I don’t mind,” Sans says into Edge’s silence, realizing the truth as it’s coming out of his mouth. His voice is as rough as if Red fucked his throat. “It’s just thinking. Not even first base. Hell, not even on the field. We’re in the locker room. Maybe the parking lot. Trust me, I’m a metaphorical baseball expert.”

(He’s so full of shit.)

“It was… enlightening,” Edge says finally, his voice following the same path his magic did until Sans can practically feel it curling around his coccyx. Sans shivers pleasantly. Edge rubs his arm, trying to warm him when the heat in Sans’s pelvis is keeping him plenty warm already, and turns on the television. “We’re not going to talk about this right now.”

“Why not?” Sans asks.

“Because you’re emotionally compromised.”

Nuzzling Edge’s shoulder, Sans says, “That’s really sweet of you.”

Edge says impatiently, “I hardly deserve credit for not wanting to take advantage of--”

Sans continues without mercy, “But I don’t have to be emotionally compromised to want to climb you like a tree.”

“This is the best day ever,” Red says to no one in particular.

Ignoring him, Edge says with just a hint of strain in his voice, “Thank you, Sans. That’s wonderful to hear. Now please stop talking.”

“You sure?” Sans asks, hiding his grin against Edge’s shoulder. “I don’t mind telling you more.”

Edge pets his side with an absent affection that makes Sans’s satisfied soul squeeze tight. Quietly, like a promise, he says, “Later, perhaps. If you’re still in the sharing mood.”

“Don’t mind him, sweetheart,” Red says. “Keep going. This is amazing.”

Tempting, but if Edge doesn’t want to play, Sans won’t make him. He yawns and tells Red, “Nah. You got enough blackmail material as it is.”

Red tsks. “No such thing, Sansy. First lesson in spy school.”

As nice as it is to be curled up against Edge, the left side of Sans’s body feels weirdly unbalanced without Red touching him. Asymmetrical. He shifts and puts his feet on Red’s lap. That’s better. Sans sighs, content, and closes his eyes. “You’re a good footrest. How’s that for blackmail material?”

“Meh,” Red says, sounding distinctly pleased. “I don’t hear you telling me you wanna climb _me_ like a tree.”

“An extremely short tree,” Sans says sleepily. “Wouldn’t even need a ladder.”

“Does that make you a shrubbery?” Red asks.

“Dunno,” Sans says. “You wanna be the kind of guy who fucks shrubbery? Seems like a good way to get splinters.”

“As opposed to fucking trees,” Red says.

“Fucking trees is a noble pursuit compared to fucking shrubbery,” Sans says. “At least dendrophilia is a thing. You think shrubbery-fucking has a fancy psychological term? Nope, because nobody does it.”

“Why do you think they call it getting bush, dumbass?” Red asks.

Sans considers that for a long moment, mind blown. “Holy fuck.”

“Exactly,” Red says, his grin audible in his voice.

Edge sighs heavily, the captive audience to their bullshit. But when Sans sneaks a look at his face, he finds Edge is wearing a small, secret smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mild dubcon (Sans's soul is oversensitive but none of them feel like the soul healing can wait until things are a little less sexually charged); Sans thinks post-healing is a great time to tell Edge he's DTF, although he's thinking pretty clearly.


	3. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so originally I didn't think this needed an epilogue, but on further consideration, it really, really did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no content warnings for this one, just Edge and Red's kinky bullshit.

Courting Sans hasn’t gone the way Edge expected, for better or worse. Every time Edge thinks he finally has a handle on the situation, Sans veers wildly in a different direction. For instance, tonight Sans seems to be trying his best to sweetly murder him one gentle touch, suggestive comment and shared memory at a time.

Sans is purring in his sleep. It’s louder than it seemed from the other side of the couch; with Sans curled up under his arm like this, Edge can’t hear the low drone of the television over the steady thrum of Sans’s purr. He doesn’t mind. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else.

When Edge stopped, Sans had been so close. Edge hadn’t needed Red’s startled gesture of warning to know what was happening; he could feel it building through the connection between them, heat blossoming low in Sans’s spine. He could watch the way Sans trembled, a flush creeping up his throat, his mouth slightly open like he was on the verge of moaning. Edge barely touched him, but if he’d pushed just a little further, he’d have made Sans shudder apart.

He doesn’t regret stopping. Sans trusts him, and he will goddamn well be worthy of that. But fuck, he wishes he could have seen it.

And now this: Sans willingly pressed up against him, occasionally nuzzling Edge’s shoulder in his sleep. When Edge started cautiously petting his arm, Sans just made a little pleased noise and squirmed closer to give Edge easier access to touch him. Apparently he’s a shameless hedonist under all that careful self-denial.

_It’s just thinking,_ Sans said, his gaze surprisingly steady despite his hazy eyelights. Just thinking, as if Edge didn’t feel from Sans’s perspective what it was like to have Red’s cock inside him. As if Edge doesn’t know now that Red touches the collar when they’re having sex so that Sans can feel Edge with them, that Red talks about the way he and Edge would share Sans’s body until they were satisfied. Sans thought of their hands on his soul, Edge’s fingers in his cunt.

It took every ounce of control Edge had not to let his reaction bleed through the connection where Sans could see it, although Sans was so goddamn distracted that he probably wouldn’t have noticed if Edge wrote _I want to fuck you_ in skywriting. If Edge hadn’t been pouring unprecedented amounts of healing magic into Sans, he’s not sure he could have kept his cock from forming. Even now, his pelvis aches with pent-up frustration.

Just thinking. And the collar is just a strip of leather, the food offering just a snack shared between friends. Sans let Edge touch him intimately, mind and soul. Edge doesn’t know much about baseball, but he’s fairly sure they’re on the field.

“Howya doing over there, boss?”

Red’s voice breaks into Edge’s reverie. When he looks up, Red is slouched in the corner of the sofa, watching him with a grin that says he knows damn well how Edge is doing and finds it hilarious. He’s rather smug for someone who froze like a deer in the headlights at the word _love_ stumbling off Sans’s tongue. It would have been funny if Edge didn’t know intimately how Red reacts when he’s cornered.

“Fine,” Edge says, his tone neutral.

“Fine,” Red echoes, somehow making the word sound filthy. “I’ll bet you are.”

Edge raises a brow. “Whereas you’re criminally pleased with yourself.”

“He’s always criminally pleased with himself,” Sans mumbles into Edge’s shoulder. 

Edge immediately stops petting him. (Never mind that it’s only Sans’s arm or that Sans silently encouraged his touch, what if Sans thinks he was taking liberties?) Sans stays exactly where he is, unconcerned, as if he wakes up with Edge holding him all the time. 

“You keep giving me reasons, babe.” Red is still holding Sans by the wrist. He hooks his thumb beneath the collar to stroke the inside of Sans’s ulna, a gesture that’s as tender as it is possessive. “You actually awake or just talking shit in your sleep?”

“M’awake,” Sans says, not sounding terribly convinced. “How long was I out?”

“‘Bout half of a shitty action movie and then an episode of Mythbusters,” Red says. 

That particular method of timekeeping probably doesn’t make sense to anyone but another Sans; Sans doesn’t ask what the fuck Red is talking about, just yawns. “Shoulda woken me up. Pretty sure Edge had better things to do than get slept on.”

“Not particularly,” Edge says.

Grinning like a bear trap, Red says, “But you look so fucking cozy.”

“It’s comfy as hell,” Sans says. “You should try it sometime.”

It’s the kind of remark that would get anyone else smacked. Edge braces for the explosion, but Red narrows his eyes like he’s counting that comment as a palpable hit in their perpetual conversational fencing match and then continues on like he didn’t hear it. “You oughta shower before you head home. You got real wet.”

If Edge didn’t have an arm around Sans, he wouldn’t notice his sudden tension. Apparently Sans is remembering the hazy evening in glorious technicolor. Edge starts to withdraw his arm and give Sans space (he _knew_ Sans would have regrets, he knew--) but Sans leans heavily into his side. Edge freezes.

With another exaggerated yawn, Sans says, “Guess I did. You happy you finally got to sit in that splash zone?” 

Red snorts. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t the splash zone. What was it you said? We’re not in the aquarium, we’re still in the parking lot.”

Sans tugs at his t-shirt, grimacing at the damp splotch where his dripping soul passed through. “I hope not. If it gets any wetter, we’re gonna need to put down a tarp next time.”

“Sounds fun,” Red says.

(Sans was telling the truth. He really doesn’t mind that Edge saw so deeply into him, even though what Edge saw was decidedly not PG-rated. So all the jokes about tree-climbing…)

Edge has been silent too long. Sans moves away from him and sits up, grinning crookedly and not quite making eye contact. “I’m gonna hose off. Sorry, edgelord.”

Edge lays a hand on Sans’s back. He’s careful to rest it somewhere neutral, the safe territory between throat and lumbar spine. Sans still shivers at his touch in a way that is decidedly not safe. Such a small reaction, but it makes heat kindle low in Edge’s body. He wants to lean forward and kiss Sans’s throat.

“That’s the fifth time tonight you’ve apologized for things that don’t offend me,” Edge says, hoping it sounds more like amusement than rebuke.

There’s a dry click as Sans swallows. His voice is almost steady. “Didn’t realize you were keeping track. I can get real meta and apologize for apologizing, if you want.”

“No,” Edge says. His thumb traces the outline of one of Sans’s ribs through his thin t-shirt. He can feel Sans breathing, shallow as a trapped creature, although he’s free to stand and walk away. No one is holding him here. “That isn’t what I want.”

“Oh,” Sans says, another shiver running down his spine. “Neat.”

The couch creaks as Red leans forward. He brings his mouth close to Sans’s throat, touching him the way Edge can’t, and murmurs, “Ain’t you gonna ask what he wants, Sansy?”

“Pretty sure I’ve got that figured out by now,” Sans says, only a slight catch in his voice.

Red chuckles, a filthy sound. “You really think so?”

Sans turns his head to study Edge, a speculative look in his eyes that will haunt Edge’s idle fantasies. Then Sans’s gaze drops to Edge’s mouth. The moment hangs between them, the potential that Sans could do something as simple and as worldshaking as leaning in a few inches to bring their mouths together.

“Edge,” Sans says, like he’s tasting the word for the first time. “Do you want…”

Yes. Fuck, yes, Edge wants and he has wanted. His hand stays gentle and open on Sans’s back, but the fingers of his left hand dig viciously into the couch cushion as he tries not to do something stupid. He waits.

Sans exhales a shuddering breath. One corner of his mouth twitches, betraying him even before he lifts his eyes to meet Edge’s and asks, all blithe obliviousness, “You wanna hear a knock knock joke?”

Edge laughs. He can’t help it; it’s more a sudden release of tension than actual humor. His voice is still scratchy with desire as he says, “Among other things, yes.”

Over Sans’s shoulder, Edge can see Red squinting at the ceiling like he’s questioning his life-long atheism just so he can have a higher power he can tell to go fuck themselves.

“Great,” Sans says, watching him with bright eyelights. “Knock knock.”

Edge says tenderly, “Come in.”

Sans stares at him, going through several stages of grief at once before settling on amused. “Wow, edgelord. Cruelly denied of a deez nuts joke.”

“You assholes deserve each other,” Red grumbles, pressing a brief kiss to Sans’s throat. There’s a surprised flare of heat in Sans’s eyes at the casual, intimate touch, there and gone before Edge can really enjoy it. Red continues, “You left some clothes here after you jizzed on ‘em. Lemme grab ‘em and you c’n change after you shower.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sans says, turning to Red. “Thanks for tossing it in the laundry, I guess. Kinda surprised you’re not keeping it around to jerk off on.”

“That’s what I keep you around for.” As if it’s a casual afterthought, Red says, “‘Course, it’s kinda cold out there. You could always sleep over again if you wanted. We’d keep you plenty warm.”

“It’s seventy degrees outside, jackass,” Sans says.

Red shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

Sans shakes his head, although Edge thinks it’s not without regret. (That could be his imagination. And by his imagination, he means his dick.) “I got some packing to do. Besides, I wanna get some quality bro time in before I skip town.”

“Paps’ll be fine for one night,” Red says impatiently. “Stay or don’t, but don’t do the overprotective thing. He’s a big boy.”

“I know. He’s having bestie time with Undyne. He prob’ly won’t even notice I’m gone,” Sans says. “It’s for me, not him. We’ve never been more than a couple miles apart before. It’s gonna be weird. Gotta stock up on my cool dude vibes.” 

Sometimes the unashamed way Sans loves his brother kicks Edge directly in the soul. Involuntarily, he glances up at Red. Thankfully, Red is looking at the television, absorbed in a ballistics dummy getting repeatedly stabbed. Edge looks away.

“Anyway, I gotta hose off,” Sans says with false casualness. He climbs to his feet, apparently unbothered by the fact that Red is still holding his wrist. “I spend so much time in your shower I oughta pay rent.”

“I can think of some ways for you to pay it off,” Red says.

“Or you could stop jizzing on me,” Sans says.

“Nah.” Red lifts Sans’s wrist to nuzzle the collar, grinning in a way that would have lesser men taking off their pants. Lesser men including Edge. “It’s not my fault you get so goddamn wet when you’re riled.”

Sans draws in a breath and glances at Edge. Edge holds his eyes, not quite smiling; Sans’s expression stays mostly neutral, but the blush creeps up his throat. Easily tugging free of Red’s grip, Sans moves safely out of reach. Not that Red couldn’t turn his soul blue and drag him back onto his lap, but Red is playing surprisingly fair with Sans tonight. Red slouches back into the couch to watch him, his eyes half-lidded and amused.

“Shower,” Sans says, not sounding quite certain of it himself. He turns and gives them his back, which takes more nerve than most of the people in Edge’s universe have. Then he stretches, almost languid enough to hide that it’s as ruthlessly calculated as a knife in the back. His shirt rides up, baring a hint of spine. Edge swallows a strangled noise; Red chuckles low in his throat. Looking back over his shoulder, Sans winks at Edge. “You still gonna give me a ride, edgelord?”

Edge will give him whatever he fucking wants if he can see that stolen glimpse of bare bone again, which Sans clearly knows. Roughly, Edge says, “If you’d like, I’d enjoy that very much.”

Sans gives him a lazy, infuriating grin. “Good to know.”

Having secured the last word, he strolls towards the bathroom. The door closes, and the shower kicks on. Edge stares helplessly after him, thinking of Sans baring those sleek, pretty bones. Are they still flushed faintly blue? Is there a haze of magic in his pelvis, begging to be used?

When Red’s hand settles on his femur, Edge flinches. Red laughs. He slid over into Sans’s spot while Edge was distracted, insinuating himself against Edge’s side like the devil on his shoulder. Red says, “Y’know, he’s probably rubbing one out in the shower.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Edge says, mostly in self defense. If he knew Sans was touching himself in their shower, he’d be too tempted to listen outside the door for the stifled little noises Sans makes when he’s trying to be quiet.

“Maybe not,” Red says after a moment of consideration. His hand inches higher up Edge’s femur, his knuckles negligently brushing the front of Edge’s pelvis. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun, though.”

No, it certainly doesn’t. 

In one smooth motion, Edge has Red by the throat. He does not squeeze; the promise that he might is enough. Red stares at him, eyelights blown with sudden interest. Edge smiles. It is not a kind smile. “After the evening that we’ve had, brother, I’m not going to be satisfied with a hasty handjob on the couch. I’m going to ruin you.”

Red huffs out a breath like Edge struck him, his eyelights bright and slightly glassy. He licks his teeth, watching Edge with something like hungry fascination, and then tilts his chin up in silent challenge. Edge isn’t choking him, Red could talk shit if he wanted to, but instead he lets his _fuck you_ grin do all the talking for him.

Edge pulls Red closer and kisses him, a kiss to claim and devour. Of course Red attempts to bite his tongue, but the effort seems half-hearted. Edge tightens his grip a little and knows he’s won when Red groans softly into his mouth, the tension in his body yielding beneath Edge’s touch. It makes victory even sweeter.

When Red is leaning into him like a drunk trying to stay upright, Edge lets go of his throat. Red lurches forward across Edge’s lap, thrown off balance, and Edge tells him, “Sans needs his clothes.”

“Does he?” Red asks, using Edge’s femurs to push himself upright. “He looks damn good without ‘em.”

Yes, and a selfish part of Edge curses the fact that none of those shared memories let him see what Sans looks like barebones. Without much conviction, he says, “Until such a time as he decides to forgo them in front of me, yes, he needs his goddamn clothes. He’ll just wander around in the filthy ones otherwise.”

Or in a towel. Now there’s a lovely thought.

“Heh.” Red leans in to give Edge something that’s more bite than kiss. “Whatever you say, boss. Just don’t let our boy catch you peeping through the keyhole.”

“I wouldn’t--” 

But Edge is protesting his innocence to an empty room. From downstairs, he can hear the cats’ renewed wailing to be unleashed from this heartless captivity by someone with opposable thumbs. Red curses amiably at them.

He can also hear sounds coming through the bathroom door. Not stifled moaning or anything so beautifully pornographic. No, it’s Sans absolutely butchering _Istanbul Not Constantinople_. If that’s his way of making sure they’re not fucking in the living room, he’s not giving Red’s libido nearly enough credit.

Between the two of them, Edge is never going to have another moment of peace.

He’s never been happier.


End file.
